[Crown Tavern] Food and Whiskey (Open)

[Edmund O'Daraeon]

14th of Immanis Era II of the Celestine Mandate, Era XIV

It was late in the brightening when Edmund had found The Crown Inn and Tavern. Upon entering the tavern, the grizzled man found himself a booth in the back. Spectre slid under the table, as Edmund sat down with his back to the wall, and one leg carelessly resting on the bench. After perusing the menu, Edmund's coal eyes rested on one of the staff that was closest. "A bottle of Midpoint Whiskey, and an order of veal liver." He croaked at the waitress, "Just the liver, none of the sides, and raw."

Spectre gave a growl under the table, which Edmund knew to mean he was hungry. "You will eat soon enough, do not worry." He whispered to his hound. Once the waitress returned with his whiskey and the veal, Edmund poured himself a glass and took a large sip. Satisfied with his drink, he grabbed the plate of liver and passed it under the table to the floor. Spectre tore into the liver ravenously, enjoying every bloody morsel.

Draining the glass of whiskey, Edmund poured himself another. He surveyed the room for no reason imparticular other than boredom. Once his survey of the room was complete, Edmund returned his gaze to the glass in front of him, and there his attention remained.

[Cyrus Marius]

The familiar sights and smells of the Crown Tavern flooded Cyrus' senses as he pressed the front door open, pausing for a moment in the entry way to appreciate the simple pleasure such a thing gave him. He was finding himself doing that more and more often of late, pausing to appreciate the small things in life that one often forgot amidst the routine of daily life. Well, the soldier reflected morbidly, when the routine of daily life was death itself, one learns to appreciate what one can.

Shaking the dark thoughts from his head, the young legionnaire made his way into the Tavern and over to the bar. His dark russet Virkyn remained outside, safely hidden in the shadows at the rear of the building. Large, indoor social settings could make her uncomfortable and anxious, and she was feral enough to become a potential problem if she became aggitated. Still, Pandora did not mind lingering outside, and the bond the two shared gave them both a sense of what was happening with the other's surroundings.

Cyrus took a seat at an unoccupied stool, and motioned towards a familiar waitress to come nearer. It took her a moment to recognize him, and after the soldier had ordered a glass of Tiger's Blood wine and she had hurried away, he remembered what his appearance must look like. He had just returned from spending almost a cycle journeying to and from the Khardran Mountains west of Prime, and he had not attended to his visage yet. His usually clean shaven face was covered with a short and soft golden beard, and his long mane of gold-blonde hair still hung heavy and matted from the elements of the mountain range. He carried the smell of the outdoors on him, the smell of the earth and the trees, and there was a weariness in his lone sapphire eye that spoke of his recent travels.

The soldier turned in his seat as the waitress brought him his wine, and he slipped several crowns in the pocket of her apron and smiled wolfishly at her as she giggled and sauntered away. Cyrus chuckled softly to himself, took a healthy sip of the blood-red wine, and scanned the common room of the Tavern. There were some new faces in the Crown this darkening, some intriguing looking characters that could prove interesting company. The legionnaire settled back and took another sip of his wine, and continued to glance around at the people sharing the Tavern this night.

[Edmund O'Daraeon]

Looking down under the table at the houd licking the blood from the plate, Edmund gave a wry smile. "You know you are beggering me with your appetite." Spectre looked up at his master with his yellow eyes, and licked a few drops of blood off his chops. "I will need to find work soon, or you will be reduced to hunting rats in the street." Taking another healthy sip of his whiskey, Edmund scanned the room once more. There were all manner of patrons relaxing and having a drink. One in particular that caught his attention was a man with an eyepatch sitting at the bar drinking a glass of crimson wine. Edmund let out a bark of laughter at the mans appearance. "See him boy," Edmund said to the hound. "He looks like I feel." Two cycles on the road scrounging for food and shelter had Edmund looking and feeling like a swine herd.

Taking another sip of whiskey, he let out another laugh. "Now, where can I find a job? Any ideas, boy?" Spectre did not even bother to look up from his plate this time. "That is what I thought. Something is bound to turn up, but for now this whiskey is more tempting."

If the other patrons did not see the hound resting underneath the table, they would most likely think he was a drunk madman, talking and laughing to himself. After pouring himself another glass, Edmund closed his eyes to relax in the warmth of the tavern, and took a sip every few moments.

[Edmund O'Daraeon]

Well into his fourth glass of whiskey, Edmund was just starting to feel the effects. A warm sensation flooded over him and he could feel his cheeks start to flush, with the welcoming glow he knew so well. All his worries and cares disappeared in the one moment that he indulged and gave in. "I should go get us a room, before I get too drunk and pass at out this booth. Spectre, stay here and guard my whiskey." Edmund told the hound with a pat on the head. Spectre gave his master the look a disobedient child would give its parent, and rested his head back on his front paws. "Good boy."

Edmund stood up from the booth and walked across the tavern to try and find someone who could rent him a room. He eyed the patrons as he passed them, uncomfortable with all the people the tavern held. He was a man from a small town, and was not used to the goings on of a big city. After about a quarter candlemark, Edmund sauntered back towards his booth, where he could see his bottle of whiskey untouched, and his hound asleep under the table. Passing by the one eyed man on his way back to his booth, Edmund was struck with an idea. Perhaps he is new to the big cities too, he sure looks like he is from the country. Stopping at a stool next to the grizzled man, he looked over at him, and then at his glass of wine. "Serale stranger, why drink wine, when there is an abundance of decent whiskey? Join me for a drink, I have most of the bottle left, and most of the evening to finish it in." After speaking to the stranger, he walked back to his booth and slid in as before, with his back to the wall. Lifting his glass, Edmund took another sip of his drink, and fell back into relaxation.

[Cyrus Marius]

One glass of Tiger's blood had quickly become two and three, and Cyrus was just draining the last of his third glass when he saw the dark-haired man pointing in his direction and laughing to himself. Being laughed at was something that the young legionnaire was not particularly used to, and where he would usually shrug off such an oddity, the wine in his blood made the incident stand out in his mind all the more. He glanced over his shoulder with a narrowed eye at the stranger, but the man seemed well in his cups, and Cyrus tried to ignore the laughter entirely.

Time passed slowly in the Tavern that evening, and Cyrus found himself draining yet another glass of wine. The soldier was not one to often indulge in alcohol and drunkeness, but at times, it was preferable than dwelling on the dark and dire thoughts that cascaded through his mind and soul. He could feel Pandora pacing restlessly outside, concious and critical of her bondmate's actions, but she remained outside of the crowded tavern and instead chose to linger in the shadows. Cyrus was partly glad to have the solitude, but a part of him missed the Virkyn's soft fur beneath his fingers.

He drained his final glass of wine and moved to push himself away from the bar when the dark-haired man appeared by his side. Cyrus turned and could now get a better look at the stranger. Scars both faint and prominent could be seen on almost every visible patch of flesh, and his eyes were as dark as the long hair that covered his head. His build was broad and muscular, slightly shorter than Cyrus but more stocky and powerful, and he carried himself with a confidence and swagger that told the young legionnaire that he was probably quite comfortable with the bastard sword that hung from his hip.

Cyrus' gaze lingered on the bastard sword for a moment, but then the man spoke and made a comment about the soldier's choice of drink before inviting him over to his table. The man did not wait for Cyrus to reply, and instead returned to his booth and commenced drinking once again. The young legionnaire's gaze followed the man as he walked back to the booth, his lone sapphire eye now appraising the man differently. The alcohol in his blood and his exhaustion from travelling had slightly distorted Cyrus' interpretation of the man's comments, and the soldier thought he heard the man speaking of his choice of drink condescendingly, as if wine were a choice for lesser men who were unable to cope with the stronger drink that the stranger was indulging in.

Cyrus rose from the barstool and stalked over to the table that the dark-haired man was seated at, and as he neared his cobalt gaze was drawn instantly to the canine form circled protectively around the man's feet. For a moment, the legionnaire's heart almost jumped in his chest, for in his current state he thought the hound could have been a Virkyn. But no, the shape was wrong, too much dog and not enough wolf, and the creature lacked the unnaturally luminous eyes that the Virkyn possessed. Still, it was enough to throw Cyrus' nerves further into disarray, and he stopped his advance inches from the man's table.

"Serale," he began, returning the stranger's earlier greeting, "I couldn't help but notice you earlier, before you came over to the table. If I am not mistaken, I believe I saw you laughing and pointing in my direction. Now," the legionnaire smiled thinly, the expression an obvious mask for his true feelings, "I know that you weren't laughing at me, because that would just be foolish."

The soldier's left palm gradually moved to rest on the pommel of his own Imperial-style longsword that slept in it's leather sheath on his left hip.

"So tell me, stranger, just what was so funny, hmm? Do you have a problem with my choice of drink, or is it the blade on your side that makes you laugh so? Because I'll tell you, the sight of you with that weapon makes me want to laugh as well."

[Edmund O'Daraeon]

Listlessly lounging in his booth, Edmund let the warm seas of drunkenness wash over him in waves. With his eyes closed and a smirk upon his lips, Edmund's mind slipped back into thoughts of work. Maybe I could become a highwayman. Robbing beautiful, young daughters of some nobleman on the road. That would be a nice short life, most like I would end up robbing some old hag or on the executioner's block. He thought to himself as he let out a chuckle.

The stranger's greeting shook Edmund out of his reverie, and he slowly opened his dark eyes to see who was addressing him. It was the one eyed stranger from earlier, seemingly here to take Edmund up on his offer. Edmund was suprised and affronted when the stranger called him foolish for laughing at him earlier. He had been laughing more at the way he felt, than at the stranger himself, but the stranger did not know that. The smirk disappearing from Edmund's face, he reached slowly for the whiskey bottle. Uncorking it, and taking a long swig from the bottle, he placed it back on the table. "Foolish eh?" Edmund said, the smirk returning to his face. "Then dress me up and bid me stand on my head, although motley is not my style."

Spectre let out a deep, low growl as the stranger placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. Edmund gave the longsword a casual glance as he quieted the hound, and then returned his eyes to the stranger. How subtle! He sarcastically thought to himself at the stranger's overt action. "In truth stranger, it is neither your choice of drink, nor the sword at my side that makes me laugh so. It is you, more specifically your visage." Taking another long pull from the bottle, Edmund continued. "I was jesting about it, with my companion here," He gestured towards the hound at his feet. "And we both agree that you look like a swine heard." The comment did not come out as Edmund would have liked it, yet words could not be pulled back once said. What he meant to say was "You look how I feel, and I feel like a swine heard", which was not tactful in its own right.

Picking up the bottle one more time, Edmund looked around the tavern. "I take back my offer of whiskey. It would be wasted on you," He looked around for a more amiable companion, perhaps a good wench, but none seemed to be in sight. "Perhaps company of the female persuasion would suit me and my bottle better. Good brightening stranger." Edmund continued to scan the room for more charming company.

[Cyrus Marius]

The young legionnaire's cobalt eye narrowed dangerously.

"My visage?" His face took on the predatory cast it often got just before combat, the chilling half-smile that made his long and angular face seem fiercely wolf-like. "Best you remember this visage well, drunken fool, because it will be the last thing you see before the Umblat claims you."

The stranger's insults and dismissive attitude further stoked the indignant fire that smoldered within Cyrus, and he stroked the pommel of his longsword threateningly as he glared at the man seated at the booth. The growl from the dog below the table drew only the most fleeting glance from the young soldier, who imagined himself with a fine new hound-skin lined scabbard should the mongrel prove overly aggressive.

"If you are so keen on meeting some more enjoyable company," Cyrus began, his deep voice smooth and steady despite his drinking and his anger, "then I most certainly have a lady to introduce you to." With that, the soldier backed away from the table and moved towards the nearest door that led outside, and he pressed the door open with one hand. The other hand he moved to rest once again on the sword at his side.

Staring at the dark-haired man with his single azure eye blazing dangerously, Cyrus gave only one curt wave of his blonde head to indicate the stranger follow him outside. "Although, fair warning, this lady is colder than ice and harder than stone, and her touch may leave you fading into darkness." His hand continued to toy with the round pommel of his longsword, giving no doubt as to the lady to which Cyrus referred, "If you seek to dance with her tonight, then come meet me outside. If you are too cowardly to back up your words with actions, then simply sit there like a boil on an Orc's ass, and we shall both know your true worth."

The door, and the invitation, remained open and awaiting the stranger's reply.

[Edmund O'Daraeon]

His face glowing from the drink, Edmund returned his gaze to the one eyed stranger. This one really takes offense to too much, he should lighten up a bit. He thought to himself as the man raved on about "the lady" at his side. Having enough whiskey in him to feel bold, but still cautious, Edmund watched as the man crossed the tavern, with the grace of a fighter, to the door. As the stranger spoke again, Edmund could not hold back his bark of laughter.

"Aye, next you will say Jorel suckles her teat, and she beds with demons. Enough of you blustering, I have had an ear full. Consider your lady's dance card full and I will meet her outside." He called back to the one eyed man at the door as he stood up from his booth. It had gone to far in Edmund's eyes, and an invitation had turned into an altercation. Just as well, the darkening had become dull. Perhaps this may liven it up.

Grabbing the bottle of whiskey off the table, Edmund took a pull off the bottle before he strolled to the open tavern door. Spectre trailed at his heels, with hackles raised, sensing the situation. The darkening may have been chilly, since it was still early in spring, but he did not feel it. His blood boiled with whiskey and adrenaline as he stepped out of the tavern. Taking one more long pull from the bottle, then setting it down on the street, Edmund pulled his sword from the sheath at his side. "Spectre, stay!" He commanded the hound. "Now allow me to introduce your lady to my bastard." Smirking, he slid into his defensive stance, prefering to let "the lady" set the pace.

Holding his blade out in front of him, slightly angled towards the stranger in a two handed grip, Edmund waited for him to draw his sword. He wondered what type of fighter the stranger was, the type to feel out an opponent, or the type to attack outright. The smirk faded from Edmund's face as a breeze blew past them, lifting the sable locks of hair from his shoulders and face. His coal eyes were cold and calculating, waiting for his opponent's next move. And now the dance begins.

[Cyrus Marius]

Cyrus stood amidst the blowing breeze of the darkening as the stranger stepped outside to meet him, the cloak around his shoulders surrounding the young legionnaire like a vengeful wraith in the whipping wind. He steadily reached up and unclasped the simple latch that held it in place, and the cloak swept from his broad shoulders to collect in a heap at the side of the alley. His golden hair stirred in the breeze, but other that that, he was entirely still, lone cobalt-colored orb fixed on the figure of the man he would be fighting. He watched the man's body language carefully, noting the way he held his weight and the way he moved his limbs, and the way he held the glittering sword that now rested in his two-fisted grip.

In return, Cyrus drew the longsword from his own sheath and discarded the leather scabbard beside his piled up cloak. The weapon was decidedly for single-handed use, long enough to reach a mounted warrior but without the length and weight of the stranger's blade. It was in the Imperial style with a small handguard but a large round pommel, better for bringing the balance well into the swordsman's hands to allow for swift handling and manipulation in close quarters. Cyrus rotated his wrist and flashed his weapon through the air with practiced ease, smirking slightly as the light reflected off the steel length of the blade. Though he preferred combat with dual weapons, one could not understand the use of two weapons without mastering the use of one. He was as comfortable with a single blade as one of his skill and experiance could be.

Suddenly, as silent as a shadow, the Virkyn appeared. She emerged from the darkness like a russet demon, sliding into view with a liquidness to her movements that bordered on the supernatural. Her brilliant azure eyes burned with the intensity of twin stars, and her ivory white fangs could be seen beneath her curled muzzle. She had the build of a wolf, yet one could see the subtle characteristics that marked her as something else. Her size matched that of the largest wolf one would find in the wild, yet she was still young, and had yet to reach her full maturity. In time, even the Gods themselves would learn to fear her name and the sound of her howl.

Now, she rushed at the stranger, death burning in her cobalt eyes. The young soldier more felt her than saw her, his mind filling with the sensation of the attack a mere heartbeat before it was launched. Immediately, he turned towards the russet shape as it formed from the shadows, and the command burst from his throat even as it formed in his mind.

"No, Pandora!"

The Virkyn halted instantly, freezing in place and head snapping towards her bondmate. The bond between Cyrus and Pandora went deeper than either understood, and despite the Virkyn's wild and feral mentality, she had within her an intelligence to match her ferocity. One word from her bondmate, one glance, would change her entire world.

Now she stared at the young legionnaire as he stood looking at her in the abandoned alley, and he spoke to her as if Edmund or his own dog were not there watching.

"This fight is mine, Pandora, mine alone. You will not harm this man or the hound that he keeps. Instead, make certain that no one disturbs us."

Pandora's sleek head turned towards Edmund again, luminous cobalt eyes staring at the dark-haired swordsman and blazing with the savagery within the Virkyn. She was a creature born from the wrath of vengeful Gods, unlike any other that walked the face of Telath, and the strength and spirit of the wolf-like creature eminated from her like a palpable aura of menace. Yet, she simply turned her sapphire gaze away from Edmund and loped off away from the two warriors, slowly circling the pair. The dark hair at her spine stood on end, evidence of her aggitation, but she followed her bondmate's commands to the letter. She would not intercede in the combat between the two, and she would prevent any other from doing so as well.

Turning away from his Virkyn, Cyrus leveled his own sapphire gaze back on the figure of Edmund. He smirked slightly, almost as if apologizing for the intrusion into their duel, but then the emotion drained from his face. His countence became unreadable, entirely devoid of emotion. His cobalt gaze held the look of unshakable focus and determination, and the fiery spirit of the man could be seen roaring within that azure orb, as savage and untamed as the shadow wolf that protected the dueling pair.

With a small, almost impercievable snarl, the young legionnaire sprang from his position and launched into his attack. He advanced on Edmund like a force of nature, without finesse, without form, only with sheer brutality and aggression. His movements were like liquid and his balance was like a dancer's, and his sword flashed through the air with a true professional's accuracy. The steel blade arc'd towards Edmund's upper torso, ready to launch again and again should the opportunity present itself.

[Edmund O'Daraeon]

Once the one eyed man drew his longsword, he prepared himself for the attack that was sure to follow. Edmund however did not expect an attack from the hound lurking in the shadows. A split second before the stranger shouted, he saw it out of the corner of his eye. A dark streak against the cobblestone of the alley suddenly came to a halt. He watched as the stranger forbid the beast from entering the fray and his lips spread in a small grin. As the stranger returned his eye to him, Edmund gave him a slight nod as a salute to the honor of single combat.

The stranger launched himself at Edmund with a speed and agility only the practiced warrior could perform. Reacting as the longsword came in at an arc towards his torso, Edmund responded by moving his sword out to meet his opponent's. Knowing that his blade size and the use of a two handed grip would lend him more power, Edmund attempted to parry the blade of the stranger. He is fast, but I should have the power and reach advantage. He thought to himself, as he recovered from his parry, and launched an attack of his own. Steel flashed through the air as Edmund brought his sword down at an angle, in an attempt to cleave the stranger on his left collar bone. The darkening had gone from a nice quiet drink at the bar, to a deadly contest in the matter of moments, quite the darkening indeed.

[Rectify]

Edmund's blade only just managed to catch the one-eyed man's Imperial sword with the lower half of the blade. Cyrus found his blade and himself pushed away from his opponent, with his blind side to his challenger. Quick of temper and fierce of spirit, Cyrus needed to do more than attack like a mad, frothing dog to defeat any opponent. Crazed fools died, cold and detached warriors lived to tell the tale.

The advantage of the bastard sword wielding man seemed clear and evident, but he was drunk and sluggish as a result from his drink, his steps slightly unsteady. Though he may think he acted with the grace of a swan and the speed of a diving hawk, he, in fact, was not. He was slower than his mind made him think, and his perception of events was slightly altered. It had only been by a fraction that he had stopped Cyrus' blow, knocking aside his opponents blade with the bit of his sword just six inches from the cross guard.

Nevertheless, Cyrus was turned away and Edmund's bastard sword was bearing down toward the half-blind man's collar...

[Cyrus Marius]

As expected, his opponent blocked the first strike. The legionnaire could read in the manner that the dark-haired man held and manipulated his weapon that he was no stranger to the blade, and he was counting on the man to put up a respectable fight. The two steel blades met with a resounding crash, but Cyrus underestimated the other man's physical strength. He all but shoved the young legionnaire away from him with his bastard sword, and responded in kind with a savage strike aimed towards Cyrus' collarbone.

His impaired left side was to the attacking Edmund, but the soldier had fought many battles with his infirmity and had long ago found comfort in how to compensate for his handicap. Though he could not see all of his opponent, he knew how long the blade was that the man weilded, and that was all that the legionnaire needed to know. With the grace and fluidness his acrobatics training had given him, Cyrus twisted violently to the left, away from the descending strike and he pushed sideways off the ball of his right foot, springing back behind the weapon and towards his opponent's side.

The dance had now begun in earnest, and the siren song of battle began to call to the legionnaire's fiery spirit. The mixture of wine and warfare burned in his blood, sharpening his reflexes and giving him an alertness he only found when the adrenaline and bloodlust flowed through him. His bonding with Pandora had hightened his senses as it did all Sanguine, gifting him with increased overall sensory awareness and response. His strict military training and hard-fought experiance had ingrained the principles of swordsmanship into his very muscles. He was in his element when engaged in battle, for it was all he was born to do.

Cyrus launched his next attack swiftly, a fierce thrust aimed at the side of the stranger's ribcage. He fought with a ferocity that some called uncontrolled or undisciplined, but where some warriors relied upon a slower and more methodical means of combat, Cyrus had a spirit that thrived upon the aggression that burned within him. He was, quite simply, a natural predator, and as his skill increased and became wedded to his innate passion for battle, his aggression became that much more of a weapon. Though his advances were brutally swift and lacked much grace, it was because the simple nature of his current attacks required very little finesse from the professional swordsman.

And now, it was a simple thrust, yet guided by a legionnaire's hand and a warrior's heart that streaked towards Edmund's right side.

[Edmund O'Daraeon]

The adrenaline coursed through his veins as he felt his blade parry his opponent's. Edmund could only hear the sound of blood pumping through out his body as his heart sped up. There were only two senses that mattered to him at the moment, and the other three were dulled down in an effort to increase the two. His vision focused and unblinking, watching for any signs from his opponent that he could use to his advantage. His sense of touch was focused on the sword in his hand, which had become an extension of his body. His touch also focused in his feet and the ground that he was on, careful to avoid rocks or any other obstacle that would make him stumble.

Then the stranger lunged at him, coming in direct and fast, straight towards his ribs. Edmund was not the fastet, so he once again relied on the blades mass and his strength to deflect the blow. Dodging was out of the question, so he met the strike head on. Sliding forward slightly, Edmund dipped the point of his sword slightly down, angled at his opponent's bowels. With a small turn of his body and a flick of his wrist, he attempted to parry the lunge, hoping that his move would knock the incoming blade off course.

If effective in directing the stranger's longsword away from himself, Edmund would be in prime position to launch his counter attack. His blade already angled down, he would step in with his left foot while pivotting his right. Focusing his momentum into his arms, Edmund attempted a diagonal up stroke aimed at his opponent's chest.

[Rectify]

Edmund did indeed knock the incoming blade off, deflecting it diagonally up and taking Cyrus slightly off kilter. The legionnaire's blade still bit flesh though, as the blade slid up an sliced open the flesh on the top of Edmund's left forearm. Blood began to well up and trickle over the edge of the broken skin, dripping down the sides of his forearm. It would require stitches.

The bastard sword wielding man also got his hit in. His left forearm wasn't useless but it certainly caused a great deal of pain to bend his wrist, which caused the skin to stretch and rip at the ends of the cut. Still, the sword was arguably usable with one hand and his counterattack was still viable, the edge of his blade cutting into the bit of skin just above Cyrus' right hip and leaving a gash that ran to the one-eyed man's belly button. It wasn't quite as deep as Edmund's wound was, it might scar but it definitely didn't require stitches.

[Cyrus Marius]

Cyrus growled low in his throat and sprang back off a step, giving both him and his opponent some breathing room. The muscles of his side and lower abdomen tightened in response to the pain of his wound, but when he spared a quick glance at it, his experiance as a legionnaire told him that it was nothing a tight gauze binding wouldn't cure. Pain could be controlled, harnessed, and used as fuel to feed the fires of battle. He could feel the slight burn that traced a thin line from his right hip to his stomach and he could feel the tickle left by the few rivulets of blood that collected against his waistband, but it only served to sharpen and hone the soldier's reflexes and combat response. Pain made it serious; pain made it real.

Still, he could not experiance a fight like this without appreciating what it demanded of him, and the young soldier knew that he was only truly alive when caught in the grip of battle. The dark-haired stranger had given him that for a night at least, and the man's own martial prowess only enhanced the legionnaire's enjoyment.

"A fine counter," he began, trying to keep his voice stoic and emotionless, despite the excitement that lurked beneath his words. "and we see now the color of each other's blood." The legionnaire used the bloodied tip of his sword to point towards the whiskey bottle that Edmund had brought out of the Crown. "If you want, I suggest a toast to mark the milestone. No sense in either of us meeting Jalat sober, don't you agree?"

The young soldier hung back, his blade at the ready incase his opponent tried anything unexpected, but his expression was relaxed and almost playful. Combat was a way of life for the legionnaire, and as such he could find and appreciate the aspects within it that often went underlooked by amateurs. His opponent was gifted with his blade, and bold enough to turn their swordplay into a true duel. Cyrus could appreciate that, and in his opinion, it deserved a drink. The soldier lowered the gleaming point of his sword a half inch, inviting the stranger to accept his proposal but ready to face him again if he declined.

"What say you?"